


There is no end, no limit, measure, bound in that words death

by cumphantom



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Claustrophobia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deathloop, Diorite, Drowning, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, Lotta bad stuff, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Muzzles, Non-Consensual Bondage, Pain, Person Who Thinks He's A Bird, Psychological Torture, Respawn Mechanics, Self-Harm, Slavery, Suggestive Themes, Suicide, Torture, Trauma, Vex Magic, Vore, forced exercise, garbage, mind wipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26537926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumphantom/pseuds/cumphantom
Summary: He loved all of his servermates he kept in his dungeon. From Xisuma's tied up figure, to Grian's insanity, they were all precious to him.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 118





	There is no end, no limit, measure, bound in that words death

He didn’t know when or why he had started collecting hermits. All he knew while he walked through the castle was that it had been the best decision of his life. Twenty-three hermits, all his, all with their own personalities and lives, and again, all his. It made him so happy, and the path to visit them all may be a long one, but he always made sure to walk it once a week. It was good for the soul, after all, to see them chained, slain, in pain. It made his heart so happy. 

He is also able to just leave them there. He set their spawnpoints back in their various cells, chains, everywhere he’s put them, and the mansion was a death trap for those beside him. He needed to make sure he thanked the Vexes, those little beasts who always had the cleverest ideas, for that. The first door that entered the dungeon was made of fire that he, being a Nether demon, could easily walk through. 

The room he was in had been his first attempt, and was rather uncreative compared to some of his later creations. What truly made this room unique though was the centerpiece. Xisumavoid, tied up, resting limply and defeated in the ropes that tied him up. He used to struggle, he could remember, fighting against the bonds, yelling at him. It had gotten rather annoying, even, to hear the damming screams. A short few rounds with the whip beat him out of it. On top of that, the wounds from the whip had become permanent when they infected, creating a beautifully repulsive display striking Xisuma’s back. He made sure to gently stroke them, feeling the shivering of a man unable to move. While Xisuma didn’t need food as he stayed mostly still, when he’d first been bound in this way, almost like an angel displaying its chest and it’s dignity, he’d found the admin dying every few days. The respirator in his helmet was rather important to his survival, it turns out. He wondered about forcing Xisuma to exercise with it off, the admin panting, unable to get enough oxygen from the too thick air, collapsing in pain and for air as he would be forced to keep running.

That was something to consider for the admin another time. For now, he left the admin mostly alone with just a small grope of his beautiful body. Looking in Xisuma’s eyes, he could see the admin’s fierce, still fighting gaze. That was probably the most beautiful thing about the admin. Despite everything, he still fought, if only in his head. He stroked his head with a gentle, almost loving touch, smiling at the strain as the admin tried to move his face away. He’d have to come back later and play with Xisuma more. If he had time, that was. He was a very busy man, after all. He’d already spent more time then planned with Xisuma. As he walked away, towards the next Hermit, he could almost feel Xisuma’s stare. He could hear desperate movements, like X was begging him to stay, to ignore the other Hermits. If his mouth wasn’t gagged, he’d imagine X would be begging for him to leave the others alone. 

It was beautiful.

The next Hermit in this wing wasn’t roped in the same way. In fact, this exhibit was a room, padded, quiet. Extremely quiet. He fancied himself an inventor, creating elaborate redstone contraptions and games (how else would he have managed to capture all the hermits then?), but this room was a feat of engineering. It could drive a player mad, as every noise you made was deadened by the walls, creating an extremely unsettling noiseless environment. The walls were padded by thick woolen carpets and pillows, meaning the only thing that could potentially harm you was yourself. The wounds, some fresh, some scars, on the creature’s legs were testament to that. Huddled in a corner, missing almost all cybernetic components that might have helped keep him sane, Doc was the first hermit he had captured, and he had been in that room for a long time. Occasionally, he would receive food dropped from a hidden dropper at the top. At first, Doc had done his best to eat civilized as he could with only one arm, but now? He watched as a slightly old, still bloodied steak dropped from the ceiling. The creeper poked up from the corner, snarling as he pounced, ripping the meat apart, with no care for the blood, no care for the pain it would bring as his body, built for a diet of mostly vegetable, struggled to digest the thick cut of steak. He rubbed his face into it, spreading the blood around the room, playing with one of the only forms of stimulation he could get. 

The hell the creeper was trapped in, no smells to smell, no beings to talk to, his own mind glitching out without his cybernetics. The occasional food must seem like heaven, something to play with, stimulate himself with. Doc was playing catch with the scraps, almost acting like a young child in his odd observing of the world. His hair was matted, his body was only covered by fur and blood, but Doc didn’t care. Was the howling, threatening, hopelessness missed? Slightly, he was proud of what he had turned Doc into. The creeper was truly a monster now. Maybe he could use that. Would Doc rip apart living things too? Could he train the creeper to rip apart, say, a player? The sweet screams of Etho as he begged for Doc to not rip him apart, limb by limb. It made his stomach flutter with excitement. That, however, was a plan for another day.

Speaking of Etho, the next place on his route was where he kept him. It was a simple room, but oh so devious for the crazed ninja. It had been his first foray into a magical prison, and he considered a huge success. The place’s spell meant everything always remained neat, in the same place. No matter how big of a mess Etho made, by his next blink, it was back to the pristine, white, clean, organized room. The flower vase Etho would shatter, turning to find them all back where Etho had found them. The bookshelf had pages and pages of blank pages, and any scribbles disappeared with a turn of the page. The bed always remained tucked in and neat, so unlike Etho’s former mess of a bed. He had taken to sleeping on top of it, perhaps unnerved by the feeling of restraintment caused by the bed. His nakedness was barely even a concern as he continued the conversation with the lamp like nothing was wrong. Despite the lamp not responding, Etho kept babbling on. It was certainly not a lamp he was seeing in his mind. He wished he knew what Etho was seeing, for science. 

Etho was one of the ones he occasionally would visit. The ninja would instantly cuddle with him, whimpering as his head was pet, whispering almost too low to hear when begging for the touch to stop in fear of it actually stopping, but always begging for him not to leave him in that room. Those small conversations that he had when he had time made him feel closer to Etho in captivity then before. The two hadn’t talked much, after all, before Etho was trapped in the room. Now he’d consider Etho one of the few who he could talk with. Then again, Etho was also one of the few who could make noises beyond screams and whimpers during their torment. Was that their fault? He considered it to be. After all, they were the ones who fell for the traps. Whatever he did with the Hermits next was up to him.

Well, Xisuma may have been the exception, but X would have stopped this if he found out, and he couldn’t let that happen. Not when he had spent all that time building and planning and creating the places for the Hermits to suffer. Besides Xisuma though, everyone had simply fallen victim, and it was their own fault for losing the game. Like Beef had. Beef had been set up in a device he jokingly could call the ‘cock-and-ball-torturinator.’ The device was simple, a chair the player could be lowered onto. Said chair also had a spinning saw blade that would saw the player’s... lowerhalf in two, before moving on to the player. From Beef’s screams, he could tell it was extremely painful, but the anticipation? He watched a round take place. Beef spawned in chains on top of the redstone contraption. He struggled all the way down, screaming for mercy loudly as he caught eyes with his torturer. Mercy... he decided to grant. He flipped a switch, the chains stopping the lowering inches away from the blade. Beef’s eyes were wide as he looked into his gaze, presumably searching for the reason behind the sudden mercy.

“Tan-“ Beef started, before Tango shushed him with a finger. Beef looked confused, but relieved.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked slyly.

Beef was speechless. He stared at him in evident confusion, mouth opening and closing like a fish. That was the problem with pausing these things, the tortured were always so confused. It was lovely, but predictable. He turned around, putting his hand on the lever- “I, no, _please_ ”

He pulled. Blood squirted out like a fountain as the screams as he began to be sawn, yet again, in two. They were glorious, screams of betrayal and of pain. He chuckled at the sound, before walking away and flicking the lever to restart the normal torture. He would have to do this more often, pausing the torture. His whimsy had been a lot of fun. Maybe rearrange Beef’s position...

This walk today was very good for his brain, so many unique ideas. To think he had been getting bored of playing with the same Hermits over and over again. He just needed to spice things up in the rooms. 

Bdubs was the final one of his initial captured five. His... punishment wasn’t the most original, but it was effective. What else could you do with the sleep master besides deprive them of sleep? Not much, and as funny as it was to see Bdubs sitting on the floor, screeching every time he dared close his eyes as an electrical shock ran through him, it wasn’t very interactive. He needed to hook up something where he himself could shock Bdubs, a game to see how long he could keep the man from sleeping without the redstone’s assistance. The room wasn’t very unique, blackstone floors that were still wet from the daily water bucket dump, and walls of similar material. Bdubs himself was in the middle of the room, staring blankly at the wall. He doubted BDubs was there, more likely off in some mindscape, but still not technically asleep. According the the helpful display, Bdub’s hadn’t slept for around two weeks. It would have been longer, but the timer reset when BDubs ended up dying from his brain shutting down. Very inconvenient. There had to be a way to get BDubs the general effects of rest so he could survive, without actually letting him sleep, but he wasn’t a potions master. Maybe he could make a deal with Stressmonster, granting her a brief reprieve in exchange for some custom potions.

BDubs’ cry put his head back into the world. The sleepmaster had just been shocked, and now was fidgeting, throwing himself around as he sobbed slightly. The man was a mess, his eyes bloodshot, his hair long and dirty, his face marked by dried tears. The image was everything he wanted from his friends, and he let himself admire the thrashing, until it settled down, Bdubs returning back to his usual dazed state. He tore his gaze away from the huddled Bdubs, his inspection of the wing complete. He patted a goodbye to Xisuma as he passed, feeling the admin flinch under the unexpected touch. As he walked out of the room, the admin stared him down, his gaze as fierce as the day he was taken. He didn’t hesitate as he walked through the fire, onward to the next chambers.

The walk wasn’t a long one. The dungeon area he kept the Hermits was large, but not absurdly large. Spacious would be the right word, if he was considering. Spacious, highly decorated, ornate. Everything he wanted in a place to live all built with his own hands. Was it any wonder why he hardly had time to visit the Hermits? Even this weekly saunter wasn’t enough. Taking care of 23 Hermits was a lot more effort then he first assumed. It made him grateful for this hall.

The hall of irony, he called it, and there were two attractions for him to look at. Cleo and Joe had been together when he obtained them, and he had had such similar ideas for the two, there was no other option for them. On one side of the hallway, there was a zombie spawner, on the other, dozens of dogs. Both rooms had windows positioned so that he could easily see the view inside. It was a very enjoyable view.

On his left was Joe Hills, torn apart by zombies. On his right, ZombieCleo, ripped to pieces by wolves. Every respawn granted them moments of reprieve, before the pain started again. Joe looked worse, his skin a pale green now, his eyes sagged, his hair in shambles, his clothing long sine shredded by the grip of the zombies. He looked tired, the spark of courage gone after countless weeks of constant pain. He, however, was one of the few Hermits who could see, but not hear another Hermit. Joe could stare aimlessly at Cleo, but no words he spoke could penetrate but the loudest of screams. His world was Cleo, and his world was pain. Joe's poems, the words he held so dear to him, they could comfort only him. His mouth was not gagged, but for all intents, he was. Joe was the Dogcatcher, he would know how to calm down the dogs ripping Cleo apart. Yet his voice couldn't reach, so Joe stayed, staring out the window toward Cleo with sad eyes even as his leg was ripped and eaten by the zombies. That's the position he usually stayed in, his eyes staring out the window towards Cleo.

Cleo was in a similar position. Her screams had always been more surprise than pain. Unlike Joe's screams, she was a lot quieter. A lot more passive, despite being a hostile mob. She stared at Joe, mouthing words of comfort as the dogs pulled her away, ripping apart her body. Pieces of rotten flesh covered the room as her legs and lower body was ripped to pieces. Despite all this, she barely reacted, just staring at Joe. He could see their visions fading as more and more flesh was devoured, exposing bones. Joe's screams were music to him. Cleo's dead reaction? It made him a bit unnerved. Either her nerves were so dead she could feel no pain, or she felt worse pain on the regular. However, no other hermit had become desensitized to their torment. If it weren't for the symmetry that he valued in this situation, he may have changed things up for Cleo. Then again… there was something about the gaze of Cleo, still not giving up, trying to encourage Joe, almost broken from the constant pain of being literally eaten alive, that he couldn't take himself to separate the duo. Together in life, and the torture he put them through.

He loved it. He loved the way Cleo looked at him, her stare silent and judging, like Xisuma's, yet also containing a promise. A promise that if she ever escaped, she would make sure that the nether demon didn't. He bet that if he broke the glass and allowed her to speak to him, her voice would be promises. Cleo had never made threats, after all. He wondered what it would be like to take her out, give her the chance just to have her fail over and over again. Would that break her spirit? Could he put Joe and Cleo together, both broken and alone despite being able to go to one another, too far gone to consider it a possibility….

He kept walking down the hall, smiling slightly at Cleo's slight snarl as he went deeper into this current chamber. The dark hallway opened up into another several room display, and a single set of deceivingly simple staircases. This chamber he considered the place to go when he needed to do something beyond just look at redstone contraptions or torture devices. The place was a much more traditional jail cell experience, reminiscient of the 'torture chamber' he had built in Decked Out. Chains and contraptions lined the way, simple devices to cause pain. They were all empty today, Hels nowhere to be seen. He wasn't a huge fan of Wels' 'evil counterpart', but he had captured Wels in exchange for access to a room like this, and a cell to keep Wels locked up in when Hels wasn't… playing with him. 

He peaked in the cell, Wels was on the floor. He always looked so small without his armor, a small bit of youthful chub in his cheeks had never left even as Wels had aged. Wels was kneeling, his head down and eyes closed. His face scrunched slightly as various aches and pains must make themselves known. The wounds were drying, but the blood hadn't been cleaned from much of his body, specifically, his bare bareback. Deep rips, presumably made from a whip, crisscrossed over Wels' back. They looked infected, Hels rarely cleaned his cuts. After all, no matter how often Wels died, he would simply respawn back in his cell, fully healed and ready to be dragged out again.

He must have made a noise, because Wels' head flung up, a trace of fear in his eyes quickly transforming to an emotion rarely seen on the knight before. Hatred. Pure, unadulterated, hatred. It was a look not even Hels was granted. Hels had always wished to burn Hermitcraft to the ground. Wels hadn't expected what he himself had done. Not until it was too late. The knight strained against the wrist cuffs binding him to the wall, flinging verbal obscenities towards him. The way Wels wreathed in his bonds, ignoring the bruises already formed along his wrists as he struggled to try and attack him. The way he never gave up, his blue eyes hardening, the way the fear always had to be forced out of him. The many scars of cuts and writing lining his body. The collar around his neck, the color and style of Wels' old armor, completing the look of the captured knight. He could admire Hels' taste for aesthetics. 

"Enjoying what you see?" came the distorted voice of Hels from behind him. The man was clothed in his normal netherite infused armor, red eyes slightly glowing. Hels was the splitting image of Wels, save for the black hair, red eyes, and armor, down to the baby face. Hels, however, looked a lot healthier. His skin had more fat and muscle underneath, his face a tiny bit less unhealthily pale, his body not littered in scars. Hels was what Wels would look like had he been out of the dungeon. 

"It looks... fine," he let himself reply with a bit of sarcasm lining his voice. Hels looked over at the cell door, his red eyes emotionless. 

"I'll do better," Hels replied, with such venom in his voice, he momentarily thought it was directed towards him, before he noticed the target. The entrance to Wels' cell, or more accurately, the kneeling figure inside. Of course. It was always Wels with Hels. He was starting to remember why he left Hels to Wels. The dark knight would do anything to be allowed minutes to attack Wels. He watched Hels turn around, going for the key, and decided to leave the knights alone. Maybe Hels would cop a feel, maybe Hels would slice open Wels, letting him bleed open. As long as Hels obeyed the terms of the deal, he could spend all the time he wish with Wels. He turned around, walking out of the chamber, past Cleo and Joe, and onto the next wing. He still had fifteen more Hermits to check in on, after all.

The next stop on his journey was the forge. He had realized, building all of these chambers and wings, that he needed more resources than he could create on his own. That made the next Hermit he had needed to trap obvious. He walked into the dungeon, inspecting the newly minted items still warm from their trip through the hot forge that made them. Diamond armor, netherite swords, artworks that served little purpose beyond beautifying the dungeon, it was all what he wanted. He had truly picked a good Hermit to toil beside the forge all day with hours of sleep in between work shifts. The bed in the corner was only allowed to be slept in from midnight to six. Any other attempt to rest would provide a magic surprise courtesy of the Vex. TFC had suffered it many times, for things such as smiling too much, or trying to take a nap in the day. It took a few weeks for TFC to adjust, to learn he wasn't more than a robot to make tools, but now, he was always at the forge, pounding out weapons after tool after art for him to use. The current sword looked flawless from afar. 

TFC himself was the most well-looking of the hermits. TFC got the most interaction, the most sleep, he was the most useful of the Hermits here. The rest were more decorations than anything, TFC created things. This also made him dangerous. TFC couldn't leave the room. Food was provided, lunch was at midday for fifteen minutes, his materials were carted in, everything was set up so that TFC would never have time for himself, and certainly never time to plot an escape. As useful as this information could potentially be, TFC's containment just wasn't quite as fun. It was a jail cell, and TFC was strong in mind, if frail in body, yet still completed his days tasks. It was inspirational in a way his other stories weren't. The story of a man, making the most of a bad situation? 

TFC turned his head, looking with sad eyes towards him, momentarily forgetting the sword still resting on the anvil. TFC looked like he wished to make a comment.. He frowned at the bearded Hermit. "Pausing in work?"

"No sir, sorry," replied the gruff voice, the hint of laughter that used to reside in it snuffed out like a bug. TFC turned around, continuing the neverending hammering of metal in the hot forge. The face of TFC was burned slightly, parts of the beard black from the soot. He smiled at the old man at the forge, slaving away for eternity. He didn't even need most of these tools, he just would never let TFC rest. Ever. That ting from the anvil would move like clockwork for eternity. TFC had easily been broken, and easily stayed broken. That was the man's beauty.

Turning from TFC, shutting and locking the door behind him, he reflected on one of the main characteristics the Hermits all shared. They were all beautiful, with their screams and sufferings, scars and tired faces. Before, they'd been nothing, but he had made them beautiful. A sculptor of torment, a painter of pain, making sure the Hermits would never be quite the same, granting no reprieve. Maybe that was one of his issues with Wels, and, as well, the next Hermits on his path. He took pride in devising the Hermits personal hells. He didn't do anything for Wels except allow Hels to do as he pleased. It felt shallow, like he was tracing a picture instead of drawing his own. He might take Wels for a few more rounds on his own, without Hels there. Unfortunately, he wouldn't dare do the same thing with the ones Cub and Scar had been given to. Even he himself was scared of the Vex.

The Vex had offered him power. He had come to them to make a deal, having them inhabit his Decked Out game in exchange for him providing a stream of players to do with as they wished. They agreed, however, they soon grew discontent with how little were coming. They also mentioned wanting two hermits in particular, Scar and Cub, in return for granting him the power to create this dungeon. He was a bit confused why they wanted Cub and Scar, but the prospect of power coerced him into agreement. Or maybe… he didn’t quite remember, if he was honest with himself. Maybe that should concern him, but it didn’t. After all, the Vex had explained why they wanted Cub and Scar. Just like he had, the duo made a ‘deal’ (the quotes were said by the Vex. He didn’t want to know why) with the Vex. In season seven, the duo had decided to break away from the Vex’s deal. This made the Vex upset, which is why they wanted to be the sole owners of Cub and Scar when they helped him with capturing and imprisoning the Hermits. 

Cub and Scar were kept in a nondescript basement area that he rarely visited. Even today, he only hesitated by the door. The last time he had been down there had almost been too much, even for him. Cub and Scar had had Vex Masks over their face, bleeding power that even he could somewhat sense. They, however, had also been bleeding. The Vex had explained to him that they tried to get the masks off, peeling off skin down to the muscles, and bleeding them out. The Vex gave Cub a sword, and watched as he tried to carve Scar’s face off to remove the masks as Scar had screamed. It almost hurt, Scar and Cub killing themselves. Not because it was something he didn't enjoy watching, but the knowledge that the Vex were doing this by simply scaring them. According to the Vex, this was something Scar and Cub decided to do on their own. The pain was worth it for a chance to get away from the Vex. The Vex, who seemed to enjoy the suffering even more than he did. The Vex, who played with Scar and Cub like they were marionettes on a string. He listened for a moment, wondering if the odd noises he heard were the duo, or just the wind. There were moans, either of pain or of love. He didn’t know which made him more uncomfortable. Maybe it was hypocritical, considering all he had done, that the Vex’s tortures was where he drew the line, but he felt it was justified. The Vex were terrifying. 

He walked away from the door, from the room where Cub and Scar would be kept, whatever the Vex were doing with them. He continued onward, down the gold-inlaid halls, to a tank filled with saltwater. The tank had fish, seaweed and algae, a place that seemed to be not much more than a beautiful aquarium. It was peaceful, watching the fish and the drowning slime that was trying and struggling to swim up even as the salt corroded away his body. Jevin’s form was shapeless, unable to wrap around the skeleton that laid in the bottom of the tank. Slime was dissolved as Jevin circled around, protecting the diamond that composed his heart. More and more Jevin was destroyed, Jevin’s wiggles to try and escape made him laugh. It was a blob of slime wiggling around to try and, well, not die. Jevin’s face seemed to have already been corroded, he couldn’t see the eyeballs that Jevin had. He pounded on the glass, the fish scattered, and Jevin’s amorphous form shuddered at the water’s movements. The sudden jiggle opened a hole enough for the salt water to get to his heart. Jevin shook frantically, a silent scream to fill the void of his own self vanishing, his heart ripped away by being dipped in salt. It had to be unimaginably painful. Jevin wiggled, then his corpse puffed away.

On the top of the tank respawned a fully-formed Jevin. He had his clothes on, his skeleton, yet his very body trembled in terror as the pistons pushed him once more into the water. He reached out, struggling to try and grab a hold on the glass, any place above the water, but pistons attacked from all sides, pushing Jevin in. Jevin’s legs moved, trying to swim above the water, trying to escape his inevitable fate, but there was no escaping it. After all, slimes can’t swim, and Jevin was simply a slime. He sunk to the bottom of the tank, turning around. He and Jevin locked eyes for a moment, Jevin wiggling in a way that spoke of begging. Jevin placed a hand on the tank. He put his hand up, like he was about to reciprocate the gesture, then he pounded on the glass. The jolt of the water made Jevin wiggle too busy focusing on the pain and protecting his fragile heart to worry about the watcher anymore. He turned away, letting his giggles at the wiggles die down. Or his chuckles at the kerfuffles? His wheezes at Jev's pleases? There were so many rhymes he could make, it was hard to take! 

Not far from Jevin, down another basement stairwell, was Iskall stored. Iskall had been the easiest, and most boring, to create a trap for. Just like in Decked Out, he had placed Iskall in a pit composed of diorite. Unlike this pit, however, the place was superheated, and also served as a convenient place to dump all the rubbish that was created in the castle. Right on top of Iskall. He always compared the block to bird poop, now he was surrounded by it while bird poop was dumped on top of him, fresh from the aviary. Iskall’s only relief was occasionally throwing himself into the fires surrounding the pit. Inevitably, he respawned right in the middle, every time. There was no true relief from this. 

Iskall was another one he didn’t visit, not because Iskall screams of torment weren’t enjoyable, it was because the smell was horrid. Iskall was, after all, in the garbage dump. All manner of filth and debauchery was thrown on top of him, and as much as his form was enjoyable to see, it was never worth the weeks of having his two servants clean him off merely by being near that place. He should build a viewing room for it, but he’s never had time for it, and afterall, considering it, who would want to look at garbage? No, Iskall would stay alone in the pit where they burned the rubbish, forever boiling alive inside of a sewage pot made out of diorite. 

Instead, he went to a place nearby the rubbish dump. The stables, aviary, the place where he kept many of his pets. The fastest horses, the most productive beehives, farms for steak, pork, chicken, eggs and feathers, wool. All they produced was dumped on top of Iskall, which was, afterall, why they were kept so near to him. While most of the places were rather dull beyond the redstone and extravagant building, the aviary was one of his favorite places to visit. It held parrots, a few phantoms, and the winged bird-brain of the server, Grian. Grian lived, eat, and acted completely like one of the parrots. The only noises he made were squawks and the odd imitation of a sound that the parrots had chattered amongst themselves. He wore no clothes, but had no shame. After all, birds didn’t wear clothes. He barely seemed to notice how large he was compared to the much more feathered friends he nested with. 

Grian was also the only Hermit who was always genuinely happy to see him. The birds instantly flew down from their perches, crowding around and nipping in greeting. He waved them off, but couldn’t resist throwing a bit of extra food down. So what if they got a bit chubby, as long as his parrots could fly they could exercise. He loved seeing Grian eat only with his mouth and a bit of his feet. His arms had been tied in a straightjacket to keep them out of the way. Birds didn’t have arms, and therefore, neither should Grian. He’d invested a good bit of time and some magic to warp the mind of Grian into a proper parrot. The secret had been treating Grian like an animal. You don’t hit animals, they can’t comprehend the pain as punishment. Instead, you use positive reinforcement, just like he used on Grian, his personal player-parrot.

A parrot landed on his head, nibbling at his ears, hair, and crown. He laughed at the tickles. Grian seemed to look sadly on. Despite believing and wholeheartedly being a parrot, he was still five feet or so tall. He wasn’t able to land on anyone’s shoulder, or play with their hair. Instead, he sulked a bit farther away. He called out to Grian. Grian waddled over, an awkward sight as he imitated a bird’s walk. Grian almost sighed as he slowly put the parrot’s hair, before moving on to groom the wings as best as he could.

He needed to spend more time with everyone. Maybe a nice birdcage for Grian beside his throne was in order. Just another project for another day. He needed more time. He left the aviary with some fresh melon to feast on, before leaving the birds to their own daily whatever-it-was that birds do. It would have been easy enough to have Grian in pain like the rest. When he first got Grian, he’d thought about putting him inside a box too small, letting him die of starvation over and over again in a cage far too small. However, he had so many pained Hermits, it was nice to have one that was simply a happy, mindless, content animal. Grian was perfect. 

Besides, xB much preferred being trapped inside a too small box. Said box wasn't actually a box, but a wooden rocking bench, placed in a nice location for him to take a rest from his walk. The bench was extremely comfortable, with the way it dipped and curved, like it was made to fit his, and only his body. He sat down and closed his eyes, smiling contentedly. He enjoyed to way the bench moved as it rocked beneath him, almost like it was redstone powered and self-propelled, even when the truth was so much more primitive. xB's shaking made for the perfect rocking motion, just the way he enjoyed it. The noises, gasps from splinters, moans from the motionsickness, coughs from the dust, it all was presented in a beautifully too small package.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just letting himself relax. It had been a longer day that still wasn't over. He deserved to take a break from making sure the Hermits were… all right, per say. All in all, he thought they were all going well, and he was far from devoid of projects to undertake to 'improve' their living conditions. It was just quite saddening he didn't have enough time in the day to truly diversify and personalize their torment. He could only be so many places at once, in the end. xB usually went days alone, cramped in this chair with him using it as often as he did, no weight to be had. It seemed unfair, but what could he do? He still had Stress, False, Mumbo, Keralis, Hypno, and Ren to visit, yet he was just sitting here. 

He decided that Ren would make the most sense to visit, and would also cheer him up a bit more. Ren was kept in the dog cage, a different breed then the one ripping apart Cleo. With his tail and ears, he made the perfect dog when he cooperated. That was the fun of Rendog unlike Grian. Ren refused to break mentally. He still comprehended the humiliation of being treated like a dog. It was similar, yet so different. Right now though, Ren had a unique ornament on his face. The last time he had visited the dogs, Ren had gotten snippy, and started screaming about how he 'was a player' and 'refused to act like a dog'. Ren had chosen his name RentheDog himself. He couldn't so easily change it. This was explained in simple concepts that a particularly intelligent dog might be able to pick up on, all while muzzling Ren. Ren's snout may not be as pronounced as a real dog, but the muzzle helped it form a more doggish shape.

With the way Ren's eyes stared at him as he entered the kennel, that muzzle wasn't coming off this week. His face was too human, too angry among the yipping and barking dogs. One young one jumped onto Ren, barking happily. He laughed at the sour expression, grabbing and tossing a treat to said pup. Ren poked his head up, staring at the treat. With the muzzle on, he hadn't eaten for several days. The slightest treat must have looked like a feast, his daily dash of kibble left untouched. Was it enough, however, for Ren to submit himself before his master? He threw a few more treats out as encouragement. Ren took a step forward, on four-legs, then seemingly decided against it and turned around, stopping to curl in a corner. Maybe next week. At least some dogs appreciate him. His goal for Ren was for him to join the pack tearing apart Cleo. He'd get him there. Dogs just needed positive reinforcement, after all.

Not that far from Ren, he could peak through the windows to a mossy area, full of plant life. The untrained eye would see a greenhouse, powered by sea lanterns to simulate sunlight, a place where flowers bloomed and the ferns grew. Even a trained eye would agree, but they'd also be able to tell that the place shimmered with magic.Stress' magic had always been an affinity with nature. Her home was always decorated with flowers, with ice, with all manners of natural forces. It was a powerful bond, and one that was perfect to use to fill the greenhouses with all kinds of plants, and Stress dolled up as the centerpiece.

In the middle of a patch of alliums, sleeping form roped to an elaborate display where redstone paths channeled the magic generated, there was Stressmonster. Vines pinned her in place, flowers from them also protecting her dignity in a way that simply made the form more arousing to look at, as flowers bloomed around herself. The figure didn't stir as he approached, her unconsciousness simply unaware of anything as her magic, and soul, was slowly being drained away. It was a peaceful, almost serene sight. Any robe burns from where she had first been awake and struggling had long since vanished, leaving only the perfection behind. He may be more into men, but he could appreciate his little flower when he took a stroll through the gardens connecting two wings of the castle.

The next wing was where the final few hermits, and his throne, were kept. He had separated a few chambers, allowing for easier access to quick torments he could watch to cheer himself up after a bad day. First on his list was Mumbo. Mumbo had been relieved of his clothing, and put inside a room stocked with everything he could want of redstone. It should have been his personal paradise, able to invent all day and night, creating things new. Who wouldn't love to do their favorite thing every day, in complete isolation, with the looming threat of torture and pain if they don't invent something every day? Mumbo, apparently. He looked miserable, nervous, all around horrible and pale as the components he was working with failed to work. Today he'd been tasked with building a machine to grow wheat efficiently. 

The design looked mostly good, Mumbo had just derped and put a repeater in the wrong position. Before Mumbo had the opportunity to fix said problem, he walked up and pressed a convenient button. Water gushed from the ceiling, washing away the redstone and all of Mumbo's work. The redstoners face fell, not even noticing his own drenching in his frantic scramble to salvage what remained. He laughed at Mumbo's antics, his panicked face. The man needed to stop worrying so much. He still had a few more hours to invent that farm, after all. A few hours of setback wouldn’t hurt.

The next in the chamber was False. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her face was bloodied and her body bruised. Her legs were tired as she ran on the treadmill, her body's exhaustion not yet outweighing the fear she felt over slipping and ending up… somewhere she would prefer not to be. She kept running, dodging obstacles periodically thrown down, always moving. He flicked a lever and rolled logs down, yet False expertly dodged them. She had spent days running and dodging, with about three hours rest a day to keep her alive. 

Her determination and courage never wavered. Her heart stayed the same. Her body, however, was only human. Even she couldn’t jump over two blocks, and as much as she would try, his pulling if that lever sealed her fate. By the way her eyes changed from a quiet exhaustion to fear, she knew this. She squeezed her eyes shut, exhaled, and ran as fast as she could to _leap_. He watched as she fell. He watched as she screamed. He listened as she screamed, her body torn apart piece by piece. She would respawn when the mobs were finished with her. He turned to the third chamber. A glass box the size of a grave.

Hypno had always been the one who filled in his terraforming. He was also the only one who filled in his terraforming. It made sense, then, to terraform him, and fill him with gravel and sand dumped on top of him as his lungs begged for air not clogged by sand and debris. He received no relief time and time again. The most interesting thing regarding Hypno was how his struggles changed from day to day. Somedays, he fought, lashing out, twisting to try and escape the box that bound him. Other days, he just laid there, accepting his fate before only his body's natural instincts would struggle for him to survive. Hypno was on the verge of breaking, already growing used to this torture. He might swap False and Hypno around one of these days, seeing how False’s active body was crushed, and Hypno’s languid muscles relearned how to run. Today, Hypno’s only action was desperate wheezing and fear. It wasn’t the most entertaining of shows when the victim wasn’t struggling, but he allowed himself a brief enjoyment of the picture before he turned away.

Keralis was the final Hermit he had locked up. Keralis always said for everyone to look into his eyes. They were really the only part of him that seemed to matter, those giant, wide, inhuman eyes. It had been a lot of fun to pluck them out. Now, Keralis was blind, and his eyes on display for him to feel, kept in resin so they wouldn’t rot. Keralis was blind, lost. For a few weeks, he had bumped into everything. After a few, he learned his cell well enough to navigate. After that, he’d rearranged the cell to have more tripping hazards. Not a day went by that Keralis didn’t have bruises on him. It was a lot of fun to thrust him into new situations. It was also a great stress reliever to kill Keralis so his eyes appeared back on his face, just to pluck them out once more, like a chicken finding a particularly delicious seed. Today, he didn’t feel like doing that. It had been a long day, but he felt satisfied.

He always ended up tired at the end of the week, and the long walk he took never helped. As he walked through the final hall and his throne was in sight, he stifled a yawn. It was a comfortable place to sit, surrounded by luxury, diamonds and gold, riches he gained that merely inflated his own sense of self worth. He sat down on the comfortable seat, Zedaph and impulse appearing from the shadows. The other members of ZIT had been the most special to him. He couldn't leave them in a dungeon or death loop to rot. Instead, he decided to make them his servants. Impulse hadn't agreed. He had even attacked him. Unfortunately, he couldn't keep his personality while being a servant, so he simply had removed it. Now Impulse was just a blank shell that served only him. Regrettable, but worth it for the complete obedience given by the member of ZIT he had feared would be the most trouble.

Zedaph, seeing what he had done, just broke. The man was like an innocent fox, saucy in words, but it was an immature joking. The first tour he gave Zed had broken the man, and he hadn't even finished setting things up. After what happened to Impulse, his rather annoying questions of 'why would you do this' and 'please Tango why can't you release them' were replaced by a nervous silence. Every movement of Zed was jumpy, skittish, entirely Zedaph and he fed on that fear. He loved the way that Zedaph flinched when he bid him forward, looking back at Impulse for comfort he would never get from the shell of his friend. He loved the way Zedaph tensed as his hair was pet, slowly relaxing into a wound up spring beneath the touch. He had had a long day and just wanted to cuddle. 

He was King Tango, after all. He always got what he wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a Decked Out fic.
> 
> Tell me if there is anything else I should probably tag.


End file.
